“I could do something with Dad’s bag.’ A couple or three days ago this idea sneaked into my mind and sat for a while ‘Oh’, I thought, ‘I guess I could’. 

That was the extent of our exchange that time.

The idea popped it’s head around the corner again, yesterday, and I let it stay longer, then I got up, made a coffee and pulled Dad’s bag from the top of my wardrobe.

An old, grey holdall that’s seen so many trips here, until it made sense for Dad to leave it here. Clean clothes, shoes a hat, fishing reel and line. It was his summer bag. No trousers, no jacket. Shorts, t-shirts, a cotton shirt. And his hat.

I lifted a t-shirt to my face and inhaled. After spending 3.5 years being in a bag on top of the wardrobe in Gozo, it smelled of damp, not the Imperial Leather soap that I’d hoped for.

I wrinked my nose, they all smelled the same, damp. 

I took a deep breath in as nameless, searing emotions radiated from my heart, finding release through my tear ducts. ‘Oh’. I hadn’t expected that. I hadn’t expected to tap into that well of grief so easily. A direct line, no messing about there. 

In the time since Dad died I’ve noticed how he’d filled our lives in different ways. From things that we needed such as kitchen scales, light bulbs, the toaster that only works on one side but I’m not going to replace it until it breaks completely; cuddly toys for the kids, jewellery; thin, green, plastic twine that he used to tie up boxes of goodies that he brought here. Survival packages. treats; advice on what do do with moth larvae infestations and how to move cicadas.

There are photographs that I can’t put up yet, and one of me and my brother with Dad from much earlier days that I have framed, but can’t always look at. 

Things, filled with memories that are too painful to look at. 

I feel disconnected for the rest of the day, going through the motions, something unravelling inside me, unsettling me. I put Dad’s clothes in the washing machine, wondering what I was going to do with them.

The sun rose today and I saw his bag on my bedroom floor. His clothes had finished washing and I could hear his voice ‘Oh Gail, what are you going to do with those, just get rid of them’. He does have a point there…. But I’ll dry them first, I have an idea in mind. 

I think we all get to a point where the effort needed to keep something away is far greater than letting something in. And I feel that I’ve reached that point. It’s time to bring Dad back into my life; to get the photographs on the wall, it’s time to remember the happy times, even if they hurt. He’s been away for far too long.